


Fragrance

by waterbottles



Category: Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbottles/pseuds/waterbottles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scent of white plum blossoms lingered in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragrance

**Author's Note:**

> An old short of mine from [Fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10160518/1/Fragrance). Just like my other LiveJournal fics, am compiling them here on AO3.

He saw a glimpse of white and red move among the sakura trees.

The scent of jasmine hung in the air, but there were limits to what its familiar warmth could mask. Behind it lay the scent of snow, incense and the cold earth of a Kyoto graveyard.

And something else. A scent he knew so well, from so long ago.

—

The lacquered dojo floor gleamed in the afternoon light. He breathed in its woody scent, the scent of a home. One he wanted to call his own, but in the dead hours of the morning, the woman in the white and red kimono watched him from its dark corners with her upside-down smile.

Sometimes she had her back turned to him. A line of ragged cloth and flesh and blood ran across her spine, much like the scar on his face, and sometimes there was snow in her hair, and always, always the scent of white plum blossoms.

In his dream, he was reading a diary with delicate handwriting. Page after page filled with names of people no longer living, each written in their own blood. On its last page, there was only one name.

He woke suddenly and the air was thick, as though white plums were in full bloom, the futon cold as snow. His hand traced his scar, half-expecting it to have opened in the night.

In the little lake behind the dojo, he stood under the sakura trees, whose blossoms were beautiful but had no scent of their own. But then there was jasmine, heady and warm. The girl was peering from the gate, reminding him about laundry or lunch or something equally mundane and precious. He smiled and she returned it gladly before disappearing inside.

He waited there until he saw the white and red kimono from the corner of his eye.

_Forgive me,_ he whispered.

_I did, didn't I,_ she answered. _It is you who cannot forgive yourself._

—

The girl was resting in the dojo, sweat and jasmine and spring in the valley of the gods. He sat down next to her and the afternoon stood still and the snow melted and the woman smiled. He closed his eyes and felt a soft hand on his scar. He opened them, but there was nothing in front of him, only the faint trace of white plum blossoms.


End file.
